


Soft Universe

by Spaghettoi



Series: unholy faces (don't bother to replace them) [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Existential Crisis, Infinity Stone Soul World (Marvel), Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-18 21:03:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16126700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spaghettoi/pseuds/Spaghettoi
Summary: If you take away a person's senses, do they even exist anymore? If an organism can feel only honey colored nothing, see honey colored nothing, and hear just plain nothing, does the organism understand that they possess a physical form? That they possess any form at all?ORPeter Parker's experience within the soul stone.





	Soft Universe

Nothing is real, here in this place Peter's stuck.

Substances work differently here; there's no such thing as solid. The air is thicker, more fluid, almost gelatinous. He's not sure how he knows that, as there's no such thing as physical touch or pressure. The ground isn't real. Nothing is real.

He feels like he's floating around in honey. Or in space, with zero gravity. His lungs don't work, but he finds he doesn't need them to—the dusty-orange air isn't breathable, and there's no reason for him to breathe anyway. He died.

Holy shit. He's fucking dead. 

Suddenly all he can feel is terror and lack of physical entity and can only think of all the things he's missing.

Graduation. Ned. May. Mr. Stark's wedding. Queens, the energy that oozed out of subway grates and open alleyway's.

But he can't really do anything about it. He's stuck in some sort of malleable ocean of bland liquidity. 

So he floats a while, because it's all he can do. There's no such thing as moving. There's no such thing as company—as finding others. There's no such thing as others. There's no such thing as Peter. That. . . that hurts. Tugs at his non-existent heartstrings. 

He doesn't have a body, he notices after the first few measures of time. (The light doesn't change here; time might not be real anyways, but the lack of concept grinds; he's got no measure except that some measure might have passed. He's non existent. He's not sure if all of this is the blink of an eye or a matter of years.) He looks down and it's simply a nothingness. He's not even sure he has eyes, actually, as all that exists is honey colored nothing that he knows whatever might be left of him might be floating in. Can he see? Can he move? Do human beings possess appendages?

Yeah, he decides, human beings possess appendages. Then he goes over the same four math equations for what feels like all of eternity, might actually be all of eternity, but is likely only a few hours.

Do hours even exist anymore? What is an hour but a false concept of something ungraspable?

If you take away a person's senses, do they even exist anymore? If an organism can feel only honey colored nothing, see honey colored nothing, and hear just plain nothing, does the organism understand that they possess a physical form? That they possess any form at all?

He can't answer that one. And honestly, guiltily, that's a little terrifying. 

(Okay, not a little. A lot. Of all the things he wishes had left him, emotions and feelings were number one. At least then he wouldn't have to bear the terror of un-existence, or the guilt of getting there. He's supposed to be brave—he's spiderman, he's a superhero, dammit, if he ever did exist.)

He's worried about things he can't alter. He's worried about how May's holding up; worried about whether or not she had to go through the horrors of fading into nothing but a consciousness and the possibility of a malleable form. He's worried about Ned and MJ and Mr. Stark and even Flash. He's worried about Queens, about the city and the people he'd sworn to protect.

He's worried about if this is all there is for him, now, this honey colored nothing. And, honestly, guiltily, that's worse.

There's nothing Peter can do, nothing he can order into helpful information, no way he can protect and nurture whatever's left of humanity, a logical part of him argues.

But, if he isn't worry, what is he? If he isn't his thoughts, what is he?

He can answer that one. Maybe that's scarier.

The truth is that he's nothing.

He files that away under things to think about later and opens up something else. The same four equations return for a good few possible-moments.

Suddenly he understands that things exist in theory or not at all.

Absence. Presence. No—presence, but only the idea of it.

Were things ever real? Were May, or Ben, or Ned, or Mr. Stark? Did he ever exist anywhere but honeycolorednothing? Did he ever exist at all? 

Was there ever a color but honey-nothing, or a universe un-soft, un-malleable? 

He's not sure. And honestly, guiltily, that's the worst one.

**Author's Note:**

> So basically I was listening to some new music and decided to write some shitty existential stuff. I wanted a way to introduce this line of drabbles and stories I've been working on. thisll likely stay the only thing in this series for a while because I write in huge chunks and therefore upload in huge chunks/completed works or not at all, and all the other stuff I have planned isn't finished yet.
> 
> This,,, is basically a4 and after a4 speculation. Sort of what I wish would happen but likely won't. Yeah. Have fun nerds love ya come scream @ me (marvelkid67 on Tumblr !)


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